The Rose that Bleeds Purple
by Anonamazing
Summary: 'Life is a carnival, Harley. Here today, gone tomorrow, and if the carousel's spinning too fast for you... well then, you might as well get off now.' After moving home to Boston following a failed internship at Arkham, a young Harleen Quinzel receives an unexpected invitation; and soon finds herself pulled down into the twisted world of a man she never thought she'd see again.
1. Chapter 1

_**AN: Hey, guys! Here we have a new take on Harley's origin story, set mostly during a riot in Arkham Asylum. The story was originally published on my other account, but I've made that one exclusively for my fics which have over 100 followers. Leave a review if you can, and I look forward to seeing you again! All the best!**_

* * *

**Prologue:**

**One Bad Day**

* * *

One bad day. That's all it takes- at least, that's what Mr. J told me.

But for me, it was different- what started out as the worse day of my life turned out to be the greatest. Sure, I loved and I lost, but that's life, ain't it? Can't keep clinging on to the past. Life is a carnival, here today, gone tomorrow, and if the carousel's spinning too fast for ya, well then, you might as well get off now.

It's a bit of a blur, all that happened leading up to that night- but ah, who cares. All I care about is that Harleen Quinzel, boring old Harleen Quinzel with her bland little job and her bland little life died- good riddance to her, that's what I say. In her place sprung Harley Quinn, Clown Princess.

What? You wanna know the story? Figures. Always looking back into the past, ain't ya? You normal people just can't live in the moment, just can't see that now is what matters, not all the things you've done that you regret, not all the what-ifs and could-have-beens.

Still wanna know? Well, if you insist…


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter One:**

**The Roses**

"This guy must really like you, Miss Quinzel," smiles the delivery boy as he hands over the bunch of roses, "you ever gonna cut him a break?"

"Not this week," I smile, the flowers in one hand, a pen in the other as I scrawl my signature onto the page.

"How long has he been sending them now?" Asks Eddie as he folds his clipboard, "a year, year and a half?"

"Something like that," I say, handing him back the pen.

Truth is, I know exactly how long it's been; one year, four months, three weeks and three days. Exactly that long ago I received the first bunch. Eddie has delivered them every week except four, and has changed the signing pen twice. At first I thought he might be involved, but as the weeks passed it became clear he is completely naive as to the potent significance of the flowers he bears. They arrive every Wednesday around 7:30 AM, sometimes later if Eddie's overslept. Seven white roses with a sinister secret. Every Wednesday, I answer the door to Eddie, take the roses, then place them on the windowsill in my apartment. I go about my daily business and return, at which time the food coloring in their water will have turned them purple. The roses always come with a small card attached, which always holds the same message, scrawled in alternating red, purple and green ink:

_Keep Smiling, Harl._

_J x_

_:)_

Sometimes it's Harl, sometimes it's Harley. Never Harleen, though. There are more than I care to count- I have the message cards of every bunch of purple-tainted roses I've received since returning from Gotham in a disused makeup bag under my bed. As much as the never-ending supply of flowers terrify me, I've never felt able to tell the police. Even if I did, how will I explain myself after all this time?

_Oh hi, sorry to bother you but since I moved back to Boston, I've been receiving flowers from my former psychotic patient, and I haven't told anyone about it. Sorry for not mentioning it earlier!_

No; It wouldn't do.

I had to move back home; I just couldn't stay in Gotham, not after what happened. My internship with Star Labs under the Arkham board had been the ultimate break for me, the perfect way to get in to the psychiatric field properly, to gain some experience and learn more about it all- must most of all, I remember thinking, it was a chance to meet some real psychos. Arkham has always been notorious for it's inmates, from Mad Dog and it's own manager, Amadeus Arkham, back in the 1940's, and in more modern times Victor Zsasz, Jonathan Crane and Jervis Tetch; but most famous across all the periods, of course-

The Joker.

I begged to have a session with him; months and months of hard work eventually afforded me that privilege. Psychopath, Sociopath, with narcissistic tenancies and perhaps the most erratic nature I will ever encounter. No remorse whatsoever for his actions, relished in re-living the memories. Treated each and every session like it was an improvisational comedy show, telling me countless stories of how he had become the way he was now, strapped into his straight-jacket, cuffed to the table by his ankles with a bodyguard at each shoulder and laughing hysterically. A goldmine for a young aspiring doctor.

But then I was taken off his case- he became obsessive, refusing to sit with anyone but myself, lashing out at any other doctor who came near. Refusing to eat, to sleep, to talk unless he had me there; the amount of times I was called out in the middle of the night to try and talk him out of gouging out an abducted nurse's eyes or stop him from biting off the fingers of the transport officers I cannot count; I never succeeded in my attempts.

It was soon decided that the relationship he had seemed to reflect on my image was unhealthy to his rehabilitation, so I was transferred back to Boston, studying under Lex Luthor's hospital chain now, and the Joker moved to solitary confinement. Yet somehow, these roses still find their way to my door each and every Wednesday morning.

Though I don't understand it, something inside me secretly craves the delivery of the roses. I feel some rooted sense of attachment to them, and have on several occasions found myself awaiting their delivery, excited to open the card although I know it's message will be eternally the same. I don't know why, and the thought of myself still wanting some connection to the Joker terrifies me beyond belief; more so than his being able to stay in contact with me, the possibility that he may know where I am right now- the thought gives me shivers, and I instinctively glance over my shoulder in paranoia. Only seconds have passed, and I stand in the doorway of the house waving to Eddie as he drives down the tarmac street on his rackety, gaudily painted moped- fern green with big, messy floral designs all across it's hub in a sickly orange colour, the words _Pam's Florist_ printed on the side; quite a hilarious sight, which I've often laughed at with Eddie.

I close the door to and tear the card from it's packaging, opening it up with a sickening excitement, ready to read the memorized message I always receive;

But the message has changed.

_See you real soon, Harleen- I'm looking forward to it, sure you are to!_

_Love, Joker_

_:)_

An hour could have passed as I stare at the tiny piece of card before me. I don't understand it- why, after over a year, would the message suddenly be different?! Using his _'real'_ name, and then that-_ 'see you soon.' _What does he mean? As I stare at the card, sweat running cold onto my skin, and something terrible creeps into my mind. In a flash, I drop the roses, running to the table and turning on the laptop, my fingers drumming rapidly against the desk.

After an eternity the screen loads, and I treble-click the internet icon in a panic- the home screen appears and I punch_ 'Gotham Cable News' _into the search bar. I click the website and freeze as it's home screen appears.

'JOKER' ESCAPES ASYLUM

POLICE IN_ 'MANIC MAN-HUNT'_ FOR PSYCHOPATH

I drop the paper and stare at the vase of roses, already bleeding purple through the white petals.

_Oh my God._

**AN: so guys, what do you reckon? I've had this on my computer for like four years now- it was originally Joker x OC and a continuation of a book i'd already written (that's right, guys, a book- the original is like 800 pages long, i've never bothered to put it on though XD ) but I've changed it to J x Harls because I think it fits better independently. Should it stay as a one-shot, or do you want more?**

**Lots of love, and please review if you're interested! All the best**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Two:**

**Safety**

I pluck up the courage to tell the police about the roses- but first, I know, I have to tell my parents. My mother cries, then screams, then cries some more; she rings the police on my behalf and we go to the station, where I sit for an hour, the officers staring at me in disbelief as I recount the the year and a half of white roses and scrawled messages. I hand over the makeup bag of practically identical cards and explain how only the most recent is different from its predecessors.

"I'll kill that son-of-a-bitch," my Dad growls down the phone when he finds out after coming home from work, "Harley, why the hell didn't you tell us?! We could have sorted this- that psycho bastard knows where you are, the police could have moved you out of there! Why would you keep something that important to yourself?! I mean-!"

"Harry!" I hear my mother screech in the background worriedly- I gather my thoughts and fruitlessly try to explain myself.

"I- I dunno Dad, I just..."

My sentence trails off and my father sighs down the phone.

"You're moving back home," he tells me, "back here with me and your mom, until this bastard is locked up behind bars again… I'm coming to get you, now."

"No, Dad," I say, "It's nothing, I'll be fine here- besides, I've got work-"

"Work can wait, your safety comes first, Harleen. Pack your stuff. I'll be there in an hour."

**~oOo~**

My Dad is true to his word, and for the rest of the week I'm practically locked inside my parents house, alone when my parents go off to work with only our pet Alsatians, Bud and Lou, for company. On Wednesday morning I drag myself into my clothes and my mother cries out for me to take out the garbage as she rushes out of the house to go to work, yelling something about missing her bus and scraping her hair back into a bun as she goes. "Alright," I call back as the door slams; less than a minute later the doorbell rings, and I rush to answer it, uncomfortably milling down the stairs to open the front door with the garbage bag in my hands, still in my pajamas.

"Forgot your keys, Ma-?"

My mother stands at the bottom of the steps, staring at me with a horrified expression.

"What is it, Mom? Are you okay-?"

I take a step in her direction, arms held out to embrace her shaken form, and something crunches under my foot; I look down, springing back a step as I realize what it lies there.

A bunch of roses.

_White _roses.

Shakily, I bend down and pick up the bouquet. I pull at the small gift card glued to it's side and tear open the purple envelope, pulling free it's smile-covered card and opening it up, revealing a message scrawled in three different colored inks:

_Didn't think you'd get away from me that easily, did you?_

_Love,_

_Mr. J_

_:)_

"...How-!?" I gasp out loud; I pull my Mom back inside and down the corridor in my home, leaving the roses on the doorstep and sitting her down, then rush upstairs to wake my father, who is still asleep due to having been working nights lately.

"Dad?! I- I've just found this on the doorstep, he knows where I-!"

"-Of course he knows where you are," says a voice from my parents room- and it's not my fathers.

**~oOo~**

A man stands before my parents' bed, a hand gun held against my father's head. A balaclava with a red smile painted across it's front hides his face; down his left arm I can see a tattoo of reptilian scales, which disappear up beneath his black shirt sleeves and down the backs of his hands. Through the balaclava I glare into a white eye, lacking a pupil and with a thick scar either side of it's eyelids, beside a quick, dark eye which watches me intently.

"What do you want?" I say, trying to keep controlled, "leave him alone-!"

"Like the flowers?"

"Harleen," my dad gasps, "get out-"

"You shut the fuck up," the man hisses, pushing the gun closer to my father's face- I move forward a step, and he cocks the weapon.

"Please don't-"

"Stay over there.

"Who are you-?!"

"Joker wanted me to deliver you a message," he tells me, not answering the question. "He said to tell you,_ 'don't try running again, or you'll be a full orphan.'_"

"What do you-?!"

The man pulls the trigger and sends a bullet through my father's temple.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four:**

**Socialites**

I fall asleep within the first half hour of being on the plane. I rouse briefly around lunch, to find my face squashed against the side of officer Howard's arm. I goofily apologize, sink my teeth into the cheap complimentary in-flight meal and find myself drifting off again. When I open my eyes again, it's due to the light shaking I'm receiving from the female officer.

"We're here," she says, unbuckling her seat-belt.

We quickly leave the airport, and are escorted by a large black car to Gotham.

We arrive outside a tall apartment building; very exclusive-looking. It's not until we enter the lobby that I realize it's the same hotel Arkham had held it's meet-and-greet for we interns three years ago. Well, at least that was the excuse- in reality it had just been Doctor Arkham's way of getting as many well-known socialites to attend one of his dos, that he might convince them all to be philanthropic towards his cause of renovating the asylum; it seems that, at last, his wills are being fulfilled.

"Ahh, memories," I say to myself, hauling my suitcase as we enter the elevator.

"You'll be staying here tonight, Miss Quinzel," says Officer Macey, "our rooms are either side, so should you need anything during the night, feel free to knock."

"Thank you so much," I say, taking the room key from Macey and opening the door. "Have a good night, you two."

**~oOo~**

The room is beautiful; cashmere bed sheets in a soft creme color, biscuit-colored walls and light elm furniture. The windows, like those in the penthouse apartment our intern night had been held in, are floor to ceiling. I pull back their heavy curtains, layered with viol, and look out over the sparkling city. I pull my little suitcase onto the bed and unzip it, finding my phone and dialing my mom's number. She answers within three rings, and sounds more worried than she should be. I calm her down and after a few_ 'stay safe', 'don't go anywhere without the police officers'_-type lectures, she agrees to hang up. I ring my best friend Abbie's phone- the two of us were both afforded apprenticeships at the asylum after university, and she is still there. She came down to Boston for a week after all the things that happened with Dad, and the two of us have been in consistent contact since. She answers after my second attempt at ringing her, and I tell her all about my safe arrival.

"Is the hotel safe enough?" she asks, and I detect that same worry in her voice that resided in the tones of my mom and dad.

"Guys, there's police officers in the two rooms next to me- Arkham must really want me at this damn party, the way he's spent out for it. The only way anyone could get in is through the window, and we're like ten storeys up so that isn't gonna happen."

"You be careful," Abbie says. "But they're right about it being safer now, I'll give you that."

"What time are you getting to this splash-dash party, then?" I ask, yawning.

"I'm not," Abbie laughs, through what sounds like a mouthful of crisps, "only you more affluent individuals are afforded the privilege of an invitation to the big party. I'll be at the actual opening, though."

"Are you serious?" I ask, affronted, "but I don't know anyone there- Jesus, i'm gonna look a right stick-in-the-mud."

"I prefer the term 'wallflower'," Abbie grins, "besides, you'll be fine. I'm sure you'll find some rich handsome bachelor to hang onto while you're there- if there is anyone famous, will you get me their autograph?"

"It won't be anyone fun," I defend, "it's gonna be all, like, business owners and philanthropist types. If you're expecting Ryan Gosling you can think again."

I glance over at the mini bar, and see there's a note stuck to it's door. I move closer and peel off the note, reading it out loud to Abbie:

_Harley, ..._I shudder at the nickname.

_Help yourself, it's all on me. You're not supposed to drink while you're here, so keep it quiet- we don't want the GCPD on us! Look forward to meeting you tomorrow._

_Yours,_

_Bruce Wayne._

Bruce Wayne- I know that name. Hell, everyone knows it- billionaire businessman by day, playboy philanthropist by night.

"What was that?" Asks Abbie.

"A note from a millionaire," I say mock-flirtily, and I explain it to Abbie.

"You've got to be kidding me," Abbie grins with surprise, "keep it! You can flog it online, fan-girls would pay hundreds-!"

"I don't think he wrote it, Ab," I smile, "probably one of his hundreds of PR assistants..."

After a few more minutes, Abbie cries out that she's missing the best part of her show and we hang up, wishing each other well until we meet at the asylum's opening. I open up the mini-bar, thinking more in depth about Bruce Wayne. His company was one of those targeted by the Joker, I remember. Meeting him seems rather daunting; less of an honor. I pull out a Smirnoff Ice and think, what the hell. I run a bath and submerge myself into the water, thoughts of what tomorrow will be like running through my head.


End file.
